


Memory Lane Therapy Services

by chucks_prophet



Series: Monsters & Madness [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Genie/Djinn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because I wanted to, But Well Balanced With Humor, Djinn Dean Winchester, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Human Castiel, M/M, Non-Conventional Therapy, Shapeshifter Sam Winchester, Struggles With Homosexuality, TW: Implied/Referenced Suicide Attempt(s), Therapist Dean Winchester, Therapy, oh and
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 03:06:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19737076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: Dean hones back in on that first memory—the one of them at what he assumes is their vow renewal. It takes a lot, but he manages to pull it to the forefront before his hands fly off Jody’s head. Dean heaves a deep breath. Jody, on the other hand, breathes softer. A smile settles on her face as the blue shimmer from Dean’s magic dies down. Before she leans into the recliner, she reaches for his hands.“This,” she says, tracing her fingers over his tattoos, “is a gift. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”





	Memory Lane Therapy Services

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure why the spacing on this is so off, but eh.
> 
> So this is a little bit different from what I normally do, but I'm super proud of it. S/O and dedication to my friend Sarah, who helped me finish this fic idea and got me even more excited to write it, which resulted in me actually finishing it. <3

Dean’s just angling to quench his midday thirst when he opens the mini-fridge. But instead, there, along the side cabinet, is a Nickelodeon Award-worthy cascade of blood.

He sighs. “Benny, did you forget to seal up Bridget’s AB negative?”

With the obnoxious squeal of the wheels on the reception chair behind him, Benny returns the frustrated sentiment, “For the last time, I don’t drink AB negative. I’m on a positive diet.”

“And I’m _positive_ you broke your diet for a taste of freedom. Well? Was it worth it?”

“Not if I have to clean it up.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean trudges to the unisex bathroom. He wrings out a rag from the mop bucket and stumbles back a little. Head spinning like a world globe, he braces himself on the sink. _Long blonde hair. Spaghetti on a drying rack. Sun shining through the screen door._

_A yellow street light. Then red. The airbag goes off. Steam from the pot. Steam from the car._

_Her head collides with the window and the kitchen timer dings._

Dean blinks back to the present. He glances down at his hand white-knuckling the rag and startles when Richie, mop and disinfectant in hand, appears in the doorway. “Hey Dean-o. Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to return the mop before I headed out for the day.”

Attempting his best laugh, Dean says, “No worries, Richie. Hey, um… do you eat after your shift?”

“No, not usually. I just go home and pass out.”

“Ah. I was just wondering; a friend of a friend’s mother makes the best pasta. She always offers me tubs full of the stuff. I figure instead of it going to waste, I’d offer them to you. You know, next time I remember to bring one in.”

Richie’s eyes start to glisten. He clears his throat, but that simple action shakes the watery film, making it more apparent. “I, um… yeah. Yeah, for sure. Thanks, man.”

Loosening his grip on the rag, Dean moves between Richie and the doorway, giving him a genial pat on the shoulder as he says, “No problem. Go home, Richie.”

One sore arm later, Dean manages to get the stains down to a minimalist Pollock painting. “Who’s next on the schedule?”

Benny shrugs behind his copy of _Treasure Island._ “I think I saw Bobby somewhere on there. And Ellen? I dunno. I only know Martin Creaser was on there unless, God hoping, he cancelled.”

“And Martin carries your favorite blood type.”

“I don’t care. Besides, with all that alcohol consumption, his blood is like a warm shot of La Croix. Which is wild, considering he’s so carbonated—”

_“He’s a glass half-full of himself,”_ Dean finishes with a light chuckle. “Or so I’ve heard.”

Just then, the bell on the door tolls. Jody’s dressed in her usual Sunday best: Her button up lime green and brown top—with the exception of the sparkling gold badge tacked on her left-hand breast pocket, beige capris, and loggers. “Howdy, boys,” she says with a small smile before turning her attention to the open fridge. “Have you tried Borax?”

Dean scoffs. “I forget you’re not fazed by any of this.”

“I’m a police officer,” Jody remarks, “I’ve seen all walks of stupidity. Blood is just sometimes an unfortunate side-effect.”

“You hear that Benny.” Dean tosses the rag at him and closes the fridge. He extends both arms for a hug, which Jody happily reciprocates. “Let’s head back.”

Once downstairs, Dean guides her through the darkness. Every ominous drip and creak, every moving and unmoving shadow, every—

Then, a light turns on, illuminating every La-Z-Boy recliner, IV drip, and blood draw machine. Dean snaps his head to her.

“You don’t think you can lighten up the place a bit?”

“Jody, I’m a Djinn, not Bobby Camp.”

“Sorry, Ang; we didn’t see those giant, glowing blue tattoos covering that massive attitude of yours.”

“Charlie, I disconnected you thirty minutes ago,” Dean says as he guides Jody to the chair next to her. “And for the record, I’m more of a Zuko guy.”

“Ugh, you _would_ choose Mr. Brooding Enigma. It makes sense: You know what we’re thinking because you get to poke around in our heads. But, as a matter of fact, we never know what’s going on inside yours. I bet it puts the Air Nomad Genocide to shame.”

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

Charlie beams as she hops up from her recliner. “Peachy. Thanks, _Djiean_.”

“See you next week, Ginger.”

Dean lingers on his goodbye long after she leaves. He knows she’s a grown girl. Only four years younger than him. But he’s grown to care for her like the little sister he never wanted. Especially after being inside her mind. Charlie’s intrusive memory is a tough one to experience secondhand. Charlie’s herself are secondhand. She wasn’t there to witness her parents’ car crash, so she recreated the scenario in her head—powerful enough to form a real memory.

Humans always wish they had superpowers like his. But they already do and don’t even know it.

Jody, however… Jody was there every minute of her trauma. She was there when that man slaughtered her family. There’s always lot of blood, like there is now. And shrieks. _Jody never knows if it’s coming from her or them._

There’s a flash of her husband _slicing into a cake while her young son, donning a tuxedo, awaits impatiently on the balls of his heels. Champagne pops and fizzles out. The cork shoots straight into her husband’s chest. Blood streams out._

_Her son’s at a batting cage._ _He swings when the ball hurdles towards him. Misses. Stumbles. Falls to their living room floor._

Dean hones back in on that first memory—the one of them at what he assumes is their vow renewal. It takes a lot, but he manages to pull it to the forefront before his hands fly off Jody’s head. Dean heaves a deep breath. Jody, on the other hand, breathes softer. A smile settles on her face as the blue shimmer from Dean’s magic dies down. Before she leans into the recliner, she reaches for his hands.

“This,” she says, tracing her fingers over his tattoos, “is a gift. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Dean ducks to hide a tight-lipped smile before facing her with a firm nod. It’s all he can do not to cry. Jody’s become a second mom to him in her time with his practice, since his was killed by a group of hunters in his teens.

“Well, uh, I’ll leave you to it for the next few,” Dean says as he disconnects her from the machine. “Let me know if you need anything, as always. And drink plenty of fluids when you leave.”

“You got it, boss.”

When Dean heads back upstairs, he’s greeted by his brother and his fiancée.

“Hey, what’re you guys doing here?”

“We were in the area to see if you had an open appointment.”

“Sam, I don’t perform miracles. Nothing can temporarily erase the memory of you puking on that slow-moving carousal at the carnival.”

“I was _sick._ ”

“You were _fifteen.”_

“ _You were fifteen,”_ Sam mocks, shapeshifting into fifteen-year-old Dean. He squeezes his cheeks. “Huh. Looks like I wasn’t the only one with a lot of baby fat.”

Dean shrugs. “Still didn’t puke on a carousal. I was too busy using my baby face to pick up chicks.”

“Oh yeah, the _one—”_

“I wanted to see if you could squeeze me in,” Eileen cuts in.

“Anything for you, Eileen,” Dean says before going into sign. “ _Sam, on the other hand…”_

Eileen giggles. Sam shifts back into himself and signs _“Really?”_ twice to prove his point.

“Benny, is there anyone else coming in?”

“Actually, yeah… we have a new patient coming in for a one o’clock. I’m not sure how to pronounce his name. Cas—Castey—”

The door chimes again. Dean turns and collides with the stormy blue iceberg in the stranger’s eyes. He’s tall, tan, and well-built—like he’d just come back from vacation in Egypt after climbing the highest pyramids and racing the longest rivers without breaking a sweat—with messy brown hair and a perfect, George Michael “Teacher”-worthy five o’clock shadow.

It’s like the part of his brain holding all knowledge of speech and vocabulary just quits on him, because all he manages to say is, “Um… hi.”

“Hello,” the man replies with a voice that’s so grating, it could start a fire. “I’m Castiel Novak. I’m here for my one o’clock appointment.”

Dean huffs a laugh, but it comes out choked. “U-ah, right. Sure. I’m Dean, and behind me is… Benny. Benny, could you go over the consent and confidentiality paperwork with Castiel.”

“On it, loverboy.”

Dean whips his head back with a pointed look.

“Well, I think we can wait,” Sam speaks up. “ _I’d like to see how this plays out.”_

Dean signs back to him.

“You just signed ‘fuck you’ instead of ‘thank you’.”

Dean brings his pointer finger to his chest before flattening his fingers to tap his head: _“I know.”_

Both thankfully and ruefully, Castiel agrees to all terms and conditions. Dean takes him downstairs. As he guides him into the chair across from Jody, she stands up.

“Jody, you don’t have to leave so soon,” Dean insists.

Jody drops her head so her hazel eyes are angled up at him. She leaves him with: “You’ll thank me later.”

“So,” Dean chimes in long after she’s left.

His eyes drop to Castiel’s lips—but only because Dean thought he was preparing to say something. They move, but only to form a small, friendly smile. Probably to defuse the tension. Most people know what they’re getting into when signing a consent form involving their blood going into the lunch pails of famished bloodsuckers. But that doesn’t stop them from processing the situation as it’s happening. And Dean doesn’t blame them. With all his markings, running from his face to his feet, he probably looks intimidating. But, truth be told—

“I’m just as scared as you.”

Why? Why did he say that? More importantly, why did he _read_ Castiel like that? Telepathy isn’t part of the job description. He’s strictly a memory manipulator.

“Sorry,” he follows up, “I didn’t mean to… I was just trying to—”

“It’s alright,” Castiel interrupts, features softening just a bit. “It’s not you, it’s me.”

“If I had a nickel for everyone that’s ever said that to me.”

That earns a light chuckle out of Castiel. “No, no, I… I mean it. It genuinely is me. I’ve never, um… sought out anything like this. I don’t even like talking about it in therapy, so Naomi suggested this in conjunction with my regular therapy. That way I don’t have to speak about it, I just have to—”

“Let someone inside your mind,” Dean finishes with a nod. “I understand. All of my patients come on referrals from therapists. I’ll be frank with you: It isn’t a minimally invasive treatment. But it works—at least so I’ve been told. And if it’s any comfort, the same rules apply with talk therapy: Everything I see will remain between us.”

“I trust you. I’m just not sure if I trust myself.”

“You will,” Dean reassures, resting his hands on either side of Castiel’s face. “Is this okay?”

Castiel lingers his gaze on Dean, but he nods.

“Now, you’re going to feel some intense vibration. It’s important to stay as still as you can.”

“Okay.”

“Deep breath.”

As Castiel exhales, Dean’s projected to _a cold, windy day._ _Except the wind isn’t pushing him as hard as the teen towering over him._ _“Faggot.”_

_He falls onto his ass. His friends laugh. He laughs. He moves to stand up and spills his marguerita._

_It’s a heavy torrent. He’s naked. His hands are braced against the cold shower tile._

_He throws his head back and is met with a pair of hungry lips. He’s in an unfamiliar house, with an unfamiliar mouth on his neck. He snatches his shirt and sprints for the door._

_There’s a loud slam. He’s on the other end of his own door. There’s a backpack by his side. It’s raining. He glances from his house and back to his bag. He rummages around for any sign of a hoodie._

_He pulls out a sandwich. He glances up at April._ Dean doesn’t know how he knows her name, but he does. _He unwraps it from the foil and takes a tentative bite_

_And his lips wrap so naturally around hers._ A fleeting thought: _Maybe I_ do _like this._

_He’s flipped onto his back. One chest compression, two chest compressions. No response. Cas is screaming at them, but they can’t hear._

_He starts hacking. Except instead of drugs in his system, it’s a cold. That, and orange juice. “It’s good for you,” a male voice insists. He has a kind smile. Castiel leans forward and kisses it off his face._

_It’s the last kiss he gives him before they cart him off._

_The sirens outside distract from the graying woman in the chair across from him. “Castiel.”_

_Castiel snaps his head back to her. “Sorry, Naomi.”_

_“Don’t ever apologize for things you can’t control, Castiel.”_

**_“Don’t ever apologize for things you can’t control.”_ **

****

Castiel jolts awake, nearly shaking the needle out from his arm. Dean removes his hands to grip his. “Castiel. _Castiel._ It’s just me.”

Castiel’s eyes go from a burning blue back to the soft but stormy blues they were before. “Dean.”

“Yes, yeah,” Dean says, breathing just as hard as he is, “Jesus, man, you gave me a scare there.”

“Did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Implant the good memories,” Castiel says, searching Dean’s eyes. He must find the answer he’s looking for—or rather, doesn’t want, because he leans back and turns away from him. “You couldn’t. Because I couldn’t handle someone inside my head for five seconds—”

“Cas,” Dean says, not sure where he’s pulling the nickname from, but he’s sticking with it, “you’ve been out for twenty minutes.”

Cas turns back to him with wide eyes. “What?”

“Yeah,” Dean chuckles. “I’ve never had someone _more_ open with me in all my ten years of practice.”

Cas’s lips almost twitch into a smile. “Huh.”

“I can still do it,” Dean adds. “There’s still some time left.”

“I, um… you know what? I actually feel weirdly at peace right now. Did any of it scare you?”

Dean shakes his head, and this time he’s confident. “No. No, it actually reminded me of my story.”

“Show me,” Cas says. “Your story, I mean—if you’re comfortable. While we still have time. You can do that, right?”

“There is _one_ a way a djinn can transfer their own memories to a human,” Dean says, eyes dropping to Cas’s lips, “but it requires me to break all kinds of professionality.”

“You have to kiss me.”

“We don’t have to,” Dean reassures. “I can just tell you and we can have a nice ‘you should’ve been there’ moment as a—”

Dean’s eyes light up blue like a fire from a welding torch. Cas’s lips are soft, yet firm. Wet, yet cracked—like ripples in a river Dean’s thrown stones across for years. _He turns to Sam. Sam grins. They roll back their arms, rock in hand, and count down from three. Three… two…_

_The knife goes flying. Asa’s about to do the same, but Dean’s quicker. He pins him to the wall like a thumbtack with his hand around Asa’s neck. With a twist_

_The sand slips through his fingers. “What? You’ve never seen sand before?” He hasn’t. But instead of saying that, he unclenches his fist to take her hand leading him into the ocean. Her wedding dress clings to her like a cocoon. It’s the last thing he sees before he’s pulled under the oncoming current._

_He’s pulled out of the water by his hair. They press again. Dean doesn’t know where she is—he wouldn’t snuff out a crossroad’s deal for a quick taste. His head hits the support beam again, illuminating the small area of the lake._

_A gunshot. He’s yanked forward. Lisa’s clutching her stomach before her knees even hit the dock._

_With a thud, Zachariah drops Dean’s bag on his desk. _Deflated and repentant, Dean approaches the bag like it’s a Rolex with a bomb attached and pulls one of the blood bags out. It leaks onto his fingertips.__

_Dean’s breath hitches. What is he doing? He flings the bloodied lamb’s knife from his hand and sobs._

_The sobbing grows louder. The bar groans in unison. Shakily from thirst, Dean reaches over and covers the man’s hand with his own. The man looks up in disgust that soon morphs into awe when his veins glow blue. “Maybe we can both be of service to each other.”_

_Benny smiles with all fangs as he shakes on it._

_“Nice to meet you, Jody,” Dean says with a courteous smile, removing his hand. “I’m Dean. Welcome to Memory Lane Therapy Services.”_

Dean’s top lip brushes with Cas’s bottom as he pulls away from their kiss—as if not to stir his lips from their slumber. Except Cas’s lips are far from asleep: “You… I… you… Dean, I’m—”

“We’ve both had to fight to get where we are,” Dean says as the glow of his eyes and tattoos fade again. “We just fought different wars.”

Cas’s face lights up with a smile alone. It’s a really nice smile. Fleeting, but nice. “I guess this means we can’t see each other anymore. You know, professionalism and all.”

“We can still see each other—outside of here, that is,” Dean replies, “but I can’t guarantee I’ll be a professional at it.”

Cas scoffs, “That makes two of us.”

Dean smiles with all his teeth—a first in a long time just like the overwhelming healing _he_ feels coursing through his veins as a single word breaches his mind:

_Home._

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to Supernatural Wiki! I kept having to toggle back and forth between my doc and their page on Djinn to make sure everything was accurate to the show.


End file.
